


A Feast of Fools

by billiethepoet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 08:58:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14891559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billiethepoet/pseuds/billiethepoet
Summary: John returns from the king's army to experience the Feast of Fools and meets a mysterious stranger in a sacred place.





	A Feast of Fools

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to hiddenlacuna for the beta!

Winding his horse through the streets of Paris was always a trial, but during the Feast of Fools it was a nightmare. Strangers jostled him without a care. They stepped directly in front of his horse as if the war-seasoned beast wouldn’t run them down. The noise and crowds and the smell were overwhelming.

It was good to be home. 

Minstrels and hawkers and pickpockets flowed around him and John felt like he was finally able to breathe. He left his horse stabled at a tavern on the edge of the worst of the celebration. He’d come back for the horse later. He wanted to walk the streets and feel Paris beneath his feet. 

He loved the army. Loved serving king and country, but there was something different about a city as majestic as Paris being turned over to the riff raff, even for just a short time. Power and impunity flowed from the mansions to the streets and the rich hid themselves away while the poor crowned their own temporary king. 

He strolled the streets, taking his time to soak in the city at its best, but he had always had a destination in mind. The one place that rose untouched above the chaotic city. Her beauty and grace outlasted the ebb and flow of changing social tides. Notre-Dame. 

Île de la Cité was as crowded as any other Parisian neighbourhood, but John pushed and forced his way to the entrance of the great cathedral. It was his annual pilgrimage. 

The vestibule was dark and cold. January was terrible time for a festival but that was probably why the ruling class let undesirables have this time as their own. He made his way down a long aisle to a side chapel to light a candle at the altar of Saint Sebastian. The wan winter light shone through the rose window, casting prisms of colour across the floor. 

He murmured the barest hint of a prayer, some words for his men, his parents, and Harriet, before turning away to seek what he really came for. 

The cathedral was empty and it was easy to slide between a stone column and a statue of the Holy Mother. He pushed on a wooden door that blended in so finely with the stone walls, it would have been hard to spot if he didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. If he hadn’t done this dozens of times over the years. 

John eased open the door. The hinges were so well oiled they didn’t so much as squeak. The staircase beyond was dark and covered in cobwebs. He pushed his way through them as he ascended. John went higher and higher until he was able to step to the side onto a small ledge adjacent to the tightly twisting stairs. 

The door he pushed against there did more than squeak. They shrieked and the wood groaned until he forced it open with his shoulder. John almost fell forward as the door gave way. He caught himself quickly.

“It’s dangerous to lose one’s balance in the heights of the cathedral.” 

The voice was as dark and deep as the shadows from which it came. The hair on the back of John’s neck stood on end and he wished the narrow hall had enough room for him to pull his sword. 

“You’ve come to look down on the city?” 

The voice sounded closer than it had the first time, but John still couldn’t see its owner. He took a shuffling step forward in the darkness, toward where he thought the man must stand. 

“Yes. I come every year.” The small passage was growing humid with their breaths. 

“I haven’t seen you here before.” A smooth, soft hand expertly caught John’s in the darkness. “Come.” 

He followed the stranger’s tug without thought. All trepidation fled and left only buzzing excitement in its wake. 

John took only a few steps before he heard stone grinding against stone and his eyes were flooded with bright light. 

The stranger pulled him through the doorway and into the cold air. He took a gulp and could almost taste the city many metres below them. He could hear faint sounds of the Feast of Fools echoing up Notre-Dame’s solid walls. 

He stepped to the balustrade to look over the heads of gargoyles and angels to the people below. They resembled nothing more than teeming, brightly colored dots from this height. 

The stranger stepped up to the railing and John got his first proper look at him. 

Lord, he was beautiful. Skin so pale it must never see the sun, a halo of dark curls atop his head that blew in the wind, and a fine and delicate profile. 

“Who are you?” John was breathless. 

The man turned and John was finally able to see his eyes. They were as grey and clouded as the January sky. His lips were pale, rose pink, and John licked his own lips when he imagined how they must taste. 

“Sherlock. I live here.” 

“In the cathedral? Are you a priest then?” 

Sherlock chuckled and looked back over the city. “No, definitely not a priest.” 

His laugh was deep and rumbled through John all the way to his cock. John almost forgot what not being a priest but living in the cathedral must mean. 

“Have you sought sanctuary here?” 

Sherlock turned his back to the city and John stepped away from the ledge to see him better. 

“Yes, I was wanted for witchcraft because the populace of Paris is made up of idiots.”

John was familiar with witches. He’d seen things in the field and on the march he could not explain. Some evil, but most benign. That still did not mean he shouldn’t be cautious. He rested his palm over his sword hilt. 

Sherlock caught that subtle motion and smirked. “I assure you I am no witch. I simply knew more than others thought I should.” 

That was not enough to make John drop his hand away from his sword. “You’re a fortune teller? You should be down at the festival.”

“Not a fortune teller. I see things, I observe, and I know what others wish to keep hidden.” Sherlock took a step toward him. It felt predatory and John’s cock twitched in his breeches. He stood his ground. “That’s how I know you are a soldier, a captain home from war--”

“Yeah, the sword and uniform probably gave that away.”

“--and that you have a weakness for the Feast of Fools and what it represents.” 

How Sherlock knew those things about him seemed much less important than the unanswered question hanging thickly in the air between them. 

“What about the Feast of Fools do I have a weakness for? It represents many things to many people.” John spread his feet a bit apart, shifted his weight as if a fight were about to break out. 

Sherlock took another step toward him. The balustrade was already at John’s back but he was unafraid. 

“The power, Captain. You like seeing people with power stripped of it. And you like seeing what the weak do when they have that power for themselves. You like the game of turning things on their heads.” 

John’s mouth was dry. Sherlock was close enough that he could reach out and grab him by the hips or crush their mouths together. 

This was too much too fast. John needed distance. 

“I had heard rumours about a monster who lived in the belfry, but I thought he was supposed to be too hideous to be seen by decent people. That’s certainly not you.” 

Sherlock shook his head and his curls caught in the breeze. John wanted to grab them and hold Sherlock’s head in place while he fucked his throat. 

“The rumours are about me. It keeps most people from trespassing in my domain. An ugliness of the body is easier to use to frighten than an ugliness of the mind.” 

“Your mind isn’t ugly.” John’s defense sprang to his lips automatically. He was enraptured with Sherlock’s eyes, the way he ran his tongue across his lips. 

“Even though I’ve told you such personal things about yourself.”

“Yes, it’s amazing.” John’s words were strained and breathless. He took a small step forward but Sherlock moved again, forcing John back against the balustrade to keep their bodies from touching. 

“I could tell you more.” Sherlock’s voice dipped and his eyes raked over John’s entire body. 

John’s cock grew plump and began to ache. “God, yes.”

Sherlock leaned forward so that his lips barely brushed John’s ear. “You like to fuck your fellow soldiers. You like to fuck your commanding officers and be fucked by your infantrymen. You give power to those who do not have it over you, and you take it from the men who do.” His teeth caught John’s skin. “You turn things topsy turvy when you fuck them.” 

John was breathing fast. His hands settled on Sherlock’s hips but he could not bring himself to pull Sherlock’s body against his. “How do you know that?” 

This time Sherlock sucked on his earlobe and nipped at the skin under his jaw before replying. “It’s written in the way you stand, the way your challenge even a stranger, and the way your cock strains against your breeches.” 

His palm came to rest against John’s erection and but he did not move or squeeze or do anything to relieve the ache there. 

John canted his head to the side and met Sherlock’s eyes. He rocked his hips gently. 

Sherlock took his hand away and John groaned. 

“But which is it on this Feast of Fools, Captain? Do you consider me beneath you because I am forced to hide away from all society, or does my brilliant mind set me above you?” 

Instead of answering Sherlock’s question, John grabbed his shoulders and spun them around. He pinned Sherlock to the balustrade. “I want to fuck you.” 

Sherlock grinned. “That means you consider me your better. You are more impressed with brains than brawn.” 

John brought his mouth to Sherlock’s. The kiss was sloppy, full of tongue and teeth, and John’s cock grew to full hardness where it was pressed against Sherlock’s matching bulge. 

Sherlock pushed him back enough to separate their lips. “Not like this, Captain. If I am above you, you will follow my orders while you fuck me. You dominate only in spirit. I still have the power here.” 

John shivered. How this man knew that the real attraction lay in the fact that any of those men, any of his commanding officers, could take back their rightful place over him, John did not know. He did not care, either. It finally felt like he was playing the same game with someone, not a private game with hidden rules. 

John let his muscles relax, signalling his agreement with the rules. 

Sherlock rewarded him with another scorching kiss that left his lips wet and bruised. 

“You may do what you like to me until I say stop. But, you will fuck me here, in view of all Paris, and you will make me beg for it.” 

“Yes, sir.” That bit of obvious, outward submission sent waves of pleasure to the pit of John’s stomach. It was in opposition to what he was about to do with the beautiful, glorious man and the dichotomy was extraordinary. 

“You may begin.” 

John rolled his eyes. Of course a beautiful genius would be arrogant as hell. All the more satisfying to have him begging for John’s cock then. 

“Turn around. Hands on the balustrade.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but did as he was told. He grasped the stone railing and bent to present his arse as a prize. 

John ran his hands from the middle of Sherlock’s thighs, over the curve of his arse, to the dip of his waist. He pressed himself fully along Sherlock’s back, where he could settle his cock in the divot between Sherlock’s cheeks and see a view of the city over Sherlock’s shoulder. 

His hands wandered forward to cup Sherlock’s erection through his breeches. He stroked lightly, up and down, and cupped one hand over Sherlock’s balls. His own hips rocked, grinding his cock against Sherlock’s arse. 

Sherlock was only content to be still for a few moments. He pressed back against John’s cock then rocked forward into his hand. “You could get on with it, you know. The feast only lasts so long.” 

“Giving orders already?”

Sherlock bent a bit more, flattening his back so he could push against John more firmly. It also gave John a better view of the city. 

“Fuck me, Captain.” 

He opened the ties on Sherlock’s breeches and pulled them to his ankles. Sherlock made a move to lift a leg, as if he would step out of them, but John stopped him. He wanted Sherlock hobbled, to feel a little trapped as John had his way. 

He slid his palm along Sherlock’s exposed arse in a soothing gesture. “I’ve got you. Stay as you are.”

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder and growled, “I said, ‘fuck me, Captain’.” His eyes crackled like a storm split sky and he panted through parted lips. 

John landed a sharp smack to Sherlock’s arse, then caressed it again. “Not yet.” 

Instead, John slid to his knees and spread Sherlock’s cheeks. He ran his nose along the sensitive skin on either side of Sherlock’s crack, until Sherlock pressed back into John’s face. 

He grinned. That was the first step to begging. 

His tongue snaked out to lick across Sherlock’s hole. The moan Sherlock let out echoed against Notre-Dame’s stone walls. 

John licked and sucked and thrust with his tongue until Sherlock was rocking back hard against John’s face. Then, he pulled back just enough to work a finger into Sherlock’s wet hole. 

He could almost hear Sherlock grit his teeth in an effort not to demand to be fucked properly. 

He had made Sherlock sloppy with his mouth and tongue, so the second finger went in easily. John thrust those two in all way to their base. He picked a slow and steady pace of fucking Sherlock’s arse with his fingers. He would lean in and plant a kiss against Sherlock’s cheek or lick where the rim of Sherlock’s arse stretched around his fingers. But mostly, he sat back enough to watch his fingers disappear into Sherlock’s body. 

John could hear Sherlock panting. Neither of them had touched their own cocks yet, and John was proud of Sherlock for that. He was obviously impatient and demanding but he knew the rules of their game. John was having too much fun bringing Sherlock to the edge to worry about his own cock. 

“Christ, fuck me. Please.” 

John’s fingers stilled. He crooked them inside Sherlock until he found that sweet spot that made Sherlock’s knees shake. 

“That’s not enough begging.” 

“John.” Sherlock’s head whipped around. His hair was a flyaway mess from the wind and his cheeks a deep pink. His lips were bitten red and swollen. “If you don’t get your cock in me this instant-” 

John had his cock out of his breeches and was pushing into Sherlock’s hole before Sherlock could finish complaining. 

The slap of skin against skin and their grunts of pleasure bounced around them. John wrapped a hand in Sherlock’s hair and pulled until Sherlock’s back bowed. That gave him the leverage he needed to fuck Sherlock deep and hard and angle his cock to hit that spot inside Sherlock every time. 

He watched his cock enter Sherlock over and over again until he had to look away to keep from coming. 

“John, John, John…” Sherlock panted. His knuckles were white where he gripped the balustrade and his arse grasped more tightly at John’s cock with every thrust. Sweat beaded at the base of his neck and John leaned forward to lick it away. Sherlock was getting close, and so was John.

He pulled a little at Sherlock’s hair again. “Beg for it.” 

“Make me come.” 

John thrust hard and then stopped. He sat, fully seated in Sherlock’s arse, and held Sherlock’s hips to keep him still. “Come on now, put that brilliant brain to use.” He ground his hips forward and Sherlock moaned. “Beg me better.” 

“Please, Captain, I want to come on your cock. I want to feel you make me come. Fill me and put me in my place.” 

John gave two hard thrusts then stopped again. He reached for Sherlock’s cock instead. He stroked just once then settled his hand at the base with a gentle squeeze. “No, Sherlock. That’s what I want to think about when I come. But you know what? I think you want something else.” 

He stroked Sherlock’s cock again and picked up a slow rhythm of shallow thrusts. “I think you’re here, with me, so you can get fucked over all of Paris. You can flaunt your unnatural nature to the entire population without them even knowing.”

Sherlock’s hips bucked and he fucked himself between John’s cock and fist, begging for a harder, faster pace for both. 

“That’s not all though. You could do this any number of places. An alley in Saint-Michel would do just as well. But you chose here. I think it’s the church. You enjoy defiling it.” 

“Yes, John, please. Yes to all of it. Please let me come. Please. Please.” 

There was the desperation John had been waiting for. 

He dropped Sherlock’s cock and grabbed him by the hips. “Stroke your cock and come all over the stones of Our Lady while all of Paris watches you.” 

Sherlock barely got a hand around his cock before he was crying out, shouting so loudly that surely even the revellers below stopped to listen. John imagined his come splattering against the stone at their feet and against the balustrade. 

He fucked Sherlock hard and let out a roar when he buried himself deep and filled Sherlock with his seed. 

John laid his head against Sherlock’s sweaty back to rest. He was panting and his vision had gone black around the edges. Sherlock’s head rested against the balustrade and he too breathed heavily in the cold air. 

Sherlock’s laughter brought him back to himself. 

“Welcome home, Captain.” 

He kissed Sherlock’s spine. “You know, you started calling me John. I hadn’t told you my name.” 

Sherlock pushed back against him, but John’s cock was already softening and slipping from Sherlock’s body. “I did? Damn. See how desperate you make me.” 

John laid one more kiss on Sherlock’s skin before stepping back and tucking himself back into his breeches. Sherlock straightened and did the same. January was a terrible month to have your cock out in the out of doors. 

But yet, they did it every year. 

“I can’t believe Mycroft lets you have the run of this place.” 

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s waist and drew him close. “Only today. He knows no one else will be here during the Feast of Fools, and he owes me.” 

John kissed him again. This time it was long and slow and full of all the love and loneliness John had stored up over the past year on the move with the king’s army. 

Sherlock pulled back first, but rested his forehead against John’s. “How long can you stay?” 

“A few weeks, at most.” It was never enough time but it was the time they had. 

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Oh good, you’ll have plenty of time to recover after I do whatever I want to you for my birthday. It’s your gift to me, you know.” 

John stepped back. Sherlock looked a mess. His breeches were come stained, but at least he hadn’t dirtied his boots this year, his face was flushed, and his hair stood nearly on end. John smiled with all the fondness he felt spark to life in his chest. 

“Let’s go home.” 

Sherlock took his hand and made it nearly to the balcony door before he cried out. “Oh! We can’t go home yet. There’s a confessional I’ve been planning to commit sacrilege in.” 

Curse John’s cock for showing interest in that. And curse Sherlock for nearly throwing them down the dark, twisting stairs in his haste.


End file.
